Egyptian darkness, had light in their dwellings; you, amid all the harsh discords of life, might have had music in yourself. Alas! for the 'little rift.'

The little sin, do not neglect it—

'Ir is the little, pitted speck in garnered fruit, That, rotting inward, slowly moulders all.' The little sin, do you know the regret, finally remorse, its reverberation? The echo of a pistol, fired on one of the lakes in the Bavarian Highlands, is, at first, but a low mutter, then 'it gathers along the cliffs like a gradual roll of thunder, increasing in volume till it breaks over the head in a deafening crash, louder than the broadside of a ship-of-the-line.'

Satan.

'ONLY supreme in misery

. . All good to me is lost. Evil, be thou my good.' MILTON.

Why on this beautiful day, when the 'blue sky, like God's great pity,' holds in its bosom soft, fleecy clouds, like the exhalations from a poor earthly heart; when the mountains are beautiful, and hazy, and shadowy-heaven's color deepened with earth's-like the Christian's horizon, where earth and heaven really meet; when the grasshoppers are chirping their song of rest, and all is peace; why should I dwell on that personation of despair, that 'God's great pity' bends not over, shut in by adamantine rocks of evil, of hatred, of obstinacy, from all influence of the sweet heavens, exhaling only blighting curses in his tremendous unrest, shaking and destroying earth's most pleasant places, or flooding them with his own hot misery? No hope, no peace, no songs of rest for that utterly miserable one. Is he not the centre, the ever-raging nucleus of this earth of ours? Can you not pity him, though he must ever bear the name Enemy-the name which he received at his terrible baptism by immersion in the floods of eternal woe. Whatever, to the shining ones, may have been the signification of that angelic name, now never pronounced in heaven-to us, had he not first fallen, it

would have been Friend. But now the utter misery of that being, who must, in his never-ending unquiet, in his awful writhings, produce ruin, and only ruin. I can pity him. He who has heard the strains of the angels must dwell amid eternal discords, he whose eye has been familiar with the beauty of heaven must forever mingle with terrible shapes. Was he not pitied by his great biographer, era-obscura, a darkened chamber, on the Milton-Milton, whose mind was a camwall of which was pencilled, by a ray of heaven's own light, all celestial beauty; while a gleam shot from hell, threw there hell's horrid imagery. He more than pitied him his Satan was subjective.

It seems that GOD HIMSELF could pity that soul that, like the ocean, forever holds in its depths untold treasures that enrich it not.

It was a strange fancy of the Dark Ages-the incarnation of the Devil as a mild, ruminant, graminiverous elf,' that 'cannot devour' us, unless we are literally-as the Scriptures say all flesh isgrass. How grandly Milton's Satan looms up by the side of this grotesque clumsiness.

How many good people avoid mentioning the common name of this individual, as though it were blasphemous to say devil. One would think that, like the Yezidis, they are devil-worshippers. I shall call him devil; what cares he, the chef d'œuvre of the ALMIGHTY, the 'star of the morning,' that dared stand alone unawed, almost in the PRESENCE unveiled, while the others 'hid their diminished heads;' what cares he by what name human pigmies may curse him? Yes, I shall call him devil, though he be leering over my shoulder as I write. He can probably even read my writing; he has had a hand in penning most paragraphs, articles, books, rolls, parchments, in engraving most inscriptions, (even some on tomb-stones,) since the art of writing by pictures, by hieroglyphs, or by letters, was known; he has now all over the writing world busy 'writing mediums;' various are his styles to suit his readers,

may

an odor of brimstone for coarse, an 'odor of sanctity' for refined olfactories. Should he now make a 'medium' of me, and, with my hand and pen, write his own life, beginning far back before he lost his place among the 'stars of the morning,' what a record would it be; as beautiful and grand as heaven, as gloomy and bitter as hell. What are our petty joys and miseries to his, in their sublime heights and depths?

He may be near me invisible, he has doffed his cowhide, (perhaps bequeathed it to some tyrannical father or schoolmaster.) I could not have heard the clatter of his hoofs on the stairs-they were long since shed—they may have been handed down by some New-England witch as heir-looms to her great great granddaughter, and now, shod with felt, may be hidden beneath crinoline and balmoral. I could almost swear that, the other day, I saw the tips of one peep from under Mrs. 's skirts; but it was so quickly withdrawn, like a turtle's head, that I am not, after all, quite positive that it was there. If I should ever be called upon to give testimony in regard to it in a court of justice, say, for instance, in a divorce case, I shall look into those heavenly blue eyes, and remember only angels that never wore the disgusting livery.

Why do I furtively glance over my shoulder; what if he is here, my room is not such an Eden that he need throw into it the seeds of his own misery. Come, old fel-, I beg your pardon, I meant to say, 'Gentleman of the old school,' look around, you see my furniture is of the plainest sort, on an inkstained table, a writing-desk containing a few trifling scribblings that could n't harm you, by its side a few books-you who have dipped so deep in lore cannot begrudge me them-a volume of Shakspeare, which even you might read with interest, your own celebrated biography by John Milton, a few novels, and so on, all indicating the unrest of a soul vainly endeavoring to escape the present and

the real-'walking through dry places, seeking rest and finding none,' did you say? I see you retain your old knack at quoting Scripture. That volume of the Rev. -'s sermons on the dusty cover of which you have left your sign-manual, probably would be dry to you. What a gleam of pleasure lights up your fine face as you glance over the colums of that New-York daily; you, perhaps, recognize some of your innumerable progeny. I am glad to see such a manifestation of parental affection. Look further, you will see a wash-stand; you know, you never particularly objected to a clean outside. I am, indeed, anxious to conciliate you: turn your eyes from the bed where I have so often slept full of rest from head to foot.' You frown so, I fear you did n't rest well last night; and that sigh, perhaps you cannot breathe freely in our atmosphere; yonder hangs a match-safe, light a bunch of the matches, they may improve the air. Yes, they are called lucifer-matches! You are thinking of another kind. Is it possible that your commanding intellect can stoop to a pun, and a borrowed one at that? Turn towards the bureau, there stands a camphor-bottle. Ah! now you grin, it is merrily suggestive of toothache; (have you an affection of the facial nerves that you can't smile?) how the grin broadens as your eye rests on the looking-glass, you probably think that can yield me no very comforting reflections. Sir, you are getting obtrusive; like many other 'gentlemen of the old school,' you are rather tedious. Bon jour, Monsieur, I will not say à dieu our blessing is a devil's curse of miseries

this, alas! is the misery there is no God to whom you would be commended. What! not going yet? I hate to be uncivil-but avaunt! Get thee hence!! Skedaddle!!! I beg your pardon, you need not extend your hand, for though no hoof- - on the contrary, a soft, velvety paw-I fear the claws, for, after all your fine names, you are still the 'Old

Scratch.' Ah! you are going, you hear your gong, the cannon, and hasten to a feast of carnage.

The First and the Last-Trailing.Arbutus-Lobelia or Cardinal Flower.

TEXTS taken from no inspired or uninspired human writer, translated from no 'original tongue' - GoD's utterances in His own language, which, in its beautiful simplicity, may be understood by you and me without an interpreter; yet, in the sublime depths of the thoughts expressed, unfathomable by an archangel.

It is as emblems, or from their associations, that I have chosen these beautiful flowers as texts. First and Last? they are among the results of ages of formations and transformations. Let us trace these from the shoreless sea,' whose ceaseless murmur was heard alone by those who broke in with a chorus of joyful shouts, down through the upheaving of the first Ararat, on which there was no ark to rest. Think of the long, nightmare sleep of earth, her agony, her throes under the incubus of waters; think of the seaming, grinding attrition of glaciers, the centuries of life, death, before she could bear on her bosom the sweet, delicate Arbutus, and the rich, passionate Lobelia.

The Arbutus-whence did she draw her fragrance and delicate hue? From the rich, dark mould of mingled oak and pine leaves, and all the refuse of the forest; from the breath of Spring that lies shivering with still half-stiffened blood, the drapery of her mother Winter flung off, and yet with but little covering of her own. I cannot tell whether from the dusky earth, to which she so trustingly clings; from the chill air, which she so bravely inhales, she has drawn her perfume and color, or if she reflects the delicate tint of the cheek, and inhales the perfumed breath of some over-bending angel, her own special attendant. I know the Arbutus is associated in my mind with those first years, when such angels might have walked the earth, and thus might their

breath and color have been exhaled and reflected. Now that perfume is to me but a sigh from those glad spring days, when, in my first rambles in the woods, with my first friends, I tore it from the earth, with its rich mould clinging to it. First friends, did I say—can I forget the friend first of all, and dearest of all, so early taken from me, that yearning thoughts and a mound in the grave-yard are all that is left to me of that dear one. But from the rich mould of a mother's grave blossoms sweet remembranceperhaps an angel has breathed into it its perfume-sweet it is as the Arbutus, but no frail spring flower.

The first the first youthful friendship terminated only when the friend had passed through the river beyond the mist. How now, as I recall it, even the most mirthful smile that flitted over that dear face has a depth, an earnestness, that belongs to all spiritual things-it seems as if immortality had crystallized it almost into sadness. The first love, pervading the being, making the whole soul tremulous. The first great success, before the vanishing of the morning dew, that every young heart condenses for itself from the surrounding atmosphere. No wonder poets have ever dwelt on the spring-time of life, the morning when every thing was first. But

"THE last! the last! the last!
Oh! by that little word
How many thoughts are stirred!
That sister of the past!'

Nature does her last as if she would leave a glowing impression, as if she had been but rehearsing for the final performance; she would be encored. She is beautiful and strong in her mornings and noons; but she is glorious in her sunsets; she is sweet and lovely in her springs and summers, but she is gorgeous in her autumns. Like a good general she has a corps de reserve for the final struggle; you go to bed on a chilly night in October, feeling that Winter, the conqueror, is advancing, and that it is almost over with her; you awake the

ture's last efforts, like the last flickering of a flame, the collecting in one passion pulsation of the slowly ebbing strength of the heart, the seeming reluctance to show weakness, decay. Why, even bleak November feels a Summer in her blood as she weds Winter, covering her face with a bridal-veil of haze.

Queen Nature, we will imitate thee, we will 'never say die'-life, full life, to the last. If go down we must, it shall be with our colors flying; our last effort shall be our best; our last soul-pulsation our fullest, strongest. Night may spread the pall over us, but we will lie down with our royal robes about us.

Or all the favored firelights that crackle, dart, or gleam, make pleasant pictures, dry idle tears, and hush weary sighs, this was the brightest, warmest, most noisy. The hearth was newly swept, the blinds closed, the chairs arranged at graceful angles, and a table brought forward, from which the shaded lamp shed mellow glory like that Murillo hangs round his baby-heads. In the brightness of the halo sat a girl, one past the awkward era, yet hardly dignified; stateliness and playfulness contending for mastery in her face made the fair tourney-ground a mystery and a charm. It was after supper, but there was nothing of that complacent expectancy in her air which well-dressed young ladies with gentlemen friends usually wear at this blissful hour. She was braiding some garment for a child, and following the pattern, she tossed it about with impatient haste, her white hands slipping in and out like lightning. Her head, with all its short, crêpé locks breaking the light into ripples, was erected in a rebellious way; her chin advanced in pretty defiance; her eyelids slightly contracted, as though she looked at Fate's relentless face and cried: Frown on! you have done your worst.'

The door opened, admitting a clatter of dishes, the voices of servants, the turning of keys in locks, the commanding tones of the mistress giving her last orders. It closed, and again all was peace. A child came forward within the radiant semi-circle, and stood with back to the blaze, its hands Napoleonically crossed behind, and the face, with all its mosaic work of dirt in fine relief, turned upon the worker. Supper seemed to have been rather imbibed than eaten; brow, chin, and apron were still doing their work.

The sewer went on twisting and transfixing the gay delaine, as though

it had been a heart and the needle a dart; the child's bright eye marking every motion, his soft palms still spread out to the heat. At last the girl's long lashes swept slowly up in a dreamy fashion; her glance travelled beyond the watcher on the rug, and fastened in the bed of glowing embers; the needle, no longer furious, contemplatively pricked her forefinger. As she gazed, a mildew seemed creeping over her bloom, the mildew of despair. Suddenly her head went down on her clasped hands, and she moaned, would have groaned, but a woman cannot. Yes, plump and rosy, dressed like a fashion-plate, with her elaborate braiding-work in her lap, she clutched her brow and moaned; then springing up, she pounced upon the small boy with an expression worthy of the Maid of Saragossa, and bore him off to the regions of chaos without, from whence he returned in the course of half an hour quite tamed down by an application of soap and clean apron. With him came his mother, a pale, serene woman, in a mourning dress. She sat down on the other side of the lamp, and began knitting, while the child stretched at her feet watched the younger lady with fearful eyes. She was not silent long; she sighed, leaned back, gazed wistfully at a picture on the wall-a picture called Summer Shades, an embodiment of coolness and repose— blue water, lazy cattle, mighty trees; a figure extended like a lotus-eater on a bed of amaranth.

'What a good time that fellow has, Henry!'

'Has he?' said Henry, still watching her face as a dweller under the shadow of Vesuvius watches its summit. 'Aunt, I am tired.'

'You have sewed too much to-day,' said the aunt sympathetically.

'Sewed too much!' she cried, thrusting out her arm like a pugilist. 'I wish